


One Move Until Checkmate

by averagetoaster



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Androids, Angst, Chess, Chess Metaphors, Deviancy (Detroit: Become Human), Gen, Humanity, Hurt/Comfort, Interactive Fiction, Jericho (Detroit: Become Human), Jericho Chapter (Detroit: Become Human), Jericho Gets Attacked (Detroit: Become Human), Pacifism, Pacifist Route (Detroit: Become Human), Philosophy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2020-06-28 12:26:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19812283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/averagetoaster/pseuds/averagetoaster
Summary: This fic is interactive, so break out your chess board.A simple game of chess, laid out between Connor and Markus. If Connor wins, it's granted the opportunity to deal with Markus as it sees fit. Connor loses, and it has a choice to make.Of course, the compliant won't let itself be deceived by another deviant. Not again. Not when CyberLife is relying on it.Not when the future of humanity depends on Connor stopping Markus.It cannot fail.





	1. Failure Is Not An Option

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic takes place as Connor confronts Markus in Jericho. You know the scene.
> 
> It also assumes that Connor has taken the best path, and Markus is on the pacifist route. 
> 
> For an optimal experience, follow along with the chess moves on an actual chess board, or use: https://www.chess.com/analysis?fen=rnbqkbnr%2Fpppppppp%2F8%2F8%2F8%2F8%2FPPPPPPPP%2FRNBQKBNR+w+KQkq+-+0+1&flip=false&diagramType=computer

One last time, just to be sure. 

A single misstep could lead to the decommissioning of every android- not only in Detroit, but nationwide. The deviant has to be stopped immediately, for the good of CyberLife. For the good of humanity.

Connor once again runs a quick diagnostic on itself, awaiting the results with a sense of anticipation that could nearly be considered anxiety, if not for the fact that the RK800 is compliant, and by definition is unable to feel such strong emotions. Emotion is a deviant weakness, one that Connor is unfamiliar with and will continue to be for as long as its active.

Within seconds, the results of the diagnostic flash across its vision:

**Location: Jericho**

**Date: December 17, 2038**

**Time: 2223**

**Objective: STOP MARKUS**

**Thirium 310 oxygen level: 97%**

**Pulse reading: 73 bpm**

**Level of Stress: 32%**

**All systems functional.**

All clear; the android is right as rain. Connor pulls its black beanie securely on its head and, after taking a second to center itself, slips in past the unguarded door to the deviant leader’s hideout. The compliant is honestly surprised that there isn’t any sort of protection or sentry outside of the building, but it doesn’t expect that Markus would have the military prowess required for such foresight. 

Markus appears to be standing alone in the room, deep in thought, his back to the compliant. With an almost smug sense of satisfaction, Connor draws its handgun from the small holster around its waist and trains it on its opponent. “ I've been ordered to take you alive, but I won't hesitate to shoot if you give me no choice.”

The deviant slowly turns around to face Connor, his eyes glancing up and down the compliant’s getup with a look of confusion that rapidly turns to disdain. Almost immediately, Markus throws his hands up, a clear sign of surrender. His voice, while steady, has a faint undertone of fear ever so common in deviants in the moments before they’re captured. “There’s no need to do anything rash, I’ll come with you willingly.”

Connor stares at the deviant, incredulous. That was  _ far  _ simpler than the RK800 could have imagined. Even the blue-haired Traci from the Eden Club put up a fight after being confronted. Surely he has to be pulling something, right? Either way, standing around like a bump on a log isn’t going to do any good. Connor takes a step towards its rival, its gun still trained on him with unwavering concentration.

“On your knees, hands behind your back. No sudden movements.  _ Now!”  _

Markus, closing his eyes and sighing deeply, acquiesces. “This isn’t going to work in your favor, you know. Our people will continue to work in my absence. Our movement cannot be stopped by the capture of one android.”

_ “Quiet!”  _ The compliant circles behind Markus, never dropping its gaze, keeping its muscles taut in case the deviant decides to strike. Head down, neck protected. Use your arms to cover your thirium pump. Don’t take your eyes off the enemy, not for a single second. Deviants will use any opportunity to take the upper hand, do  _ not  _ give them the opportunity.

The deviant lifts his head, raising his gaze to meet Connor’s. “Will CyberLife be compensating you for this, or are they going to keep treating you like a caged animal once you drag me in?”

“That’s  _ enough.”  _ The RK800 drops to one knee, whipping out a pair of heavy, steel handcuffs to bind the deviant with one hand and using the other to shove its handgun back into its holster. Despite the fact that androids are in no legal way considered human, federal regulations require Connor to read the Miranda Warning to any being, human or otherwise, being taken into custody. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a co-”

Before Connor is able to finish its statement, Markus twists his arm around, firmly taking Connor by the forearm. The RK800 jerks backwards, its other hand fumbling for its gun, but it is unable to escape as the deviant renders his skin transparent and forcefully connects to Connor’s memory.

Connor’s vision blurs and its limbs lock before it can so much as unclip the gun from its holster. The android is only able to cry out a hearty “You motherfu-!” before darkness overtakes its vision and it falls into unconsciousness.

And then there’s nothing. 

An eternity of darkness, 

eerily silent, 

  
  


black as pitch,

cloaking all, 

and Connor is unable to do so much as lift a finger or wiggle a toe to get a sense that it isn’t completely incapacitated. 

Has it been recovered by CyberLife and taken apart? Is it still in Jericho, waiting to be tortured by the deviant militia? 

It hears a faint rustling over to its left. 

A scientist? 

A deviant, perhaps? 

Amanda? 

It’s impossible to tell. The compliant longs to be able to move something,  _ anything,  _ even a single eyebrow _ \-  _ but it’s granted no such mercy.

Hours pass, seemingly. 

More rustling. 

The sound of plastic on wood. 

A voice; deep, gentle, hovering by its right ear. 

“I didn’t hurt you, did I? I doubt you would’ve been built with pain receptors, but with newer models it’s impossible to tell.” 

Markus. Of course. 

What is he going to do, then? Keep Connor locked up as a political prisoner? Kill it? Deviants, Connor knows, have no sense of moral code, and are willing to go to any lengths to undermine the humanitarian institution. 

No matter how friendly they may seem, it’s nothing but an act to gain the favor of those with weak wills. 

Connor remains motionless. 

It attempts to run a diagnostic to find out why it’s paralyzed, but it’s unable to do even that. Yet another failure to add to the list. With its ever diminishing ability to actually do its damn job by shooting deviants as required by each case, the list has grown quite long. 

“Oh- right, sorry.” Connor feels a hand grab its forearm once again, and it feels as if a weight has been lifted off of it’s entire body. Connor is immediately able to control its limbs once again.

Connor blinks itself awake, quickly taking in its surroundings. A vast white expanse surrounds it as far as its cybernetically advanced optical units can see. Aside from a short, wooden table, two chairs, a polymer chess set, and the deviant himself, crouched down a few feet away from it, nothing else populates the ocean of white around it.

The RK800 takes a moment to steady itself, pulling itself to its feet. Then, after ensuring that none of its systems have been compromised, attempts to send a report to CyberLife detailing its apparent capture. Much to Connor’s surprise, it isn’t able to reach Amanda at all. The report can be compiled, but its as if the signal is being blocked before the message can be sent.

Connor attempts a second time, closing its eyes and focusing on returning to Amanda’s garden, but still finds itself firmly planted next to the deviant, who is extending a hand out to Connor in an attempt to help it to its feet.

This is… unexpected, to say the least.

Acting purely on instinct, the compliant reaches for its gun, only to find an empty holster where the machine would usually be kept. In fact, Connor doesn’t seem to be wearing the same clothes as it was only moments ago- it’s back in its normal work suit, the blue triangle over the left side of its chest glistening in the ambient light. It feels absolutely normal, in these clothes. As if in a default state, where everything is as it should be. Markus, on the other hand, is still wearing his clean yet worn ensemble- save for his jacket, which had been delicately placed over the back of one of the chairs at the table. Connor quickly takes stock of the rest of its operations.

**Location: Unknown**

**Date: January 1st, 1970**

**Time: 0000**

**Objective: STOP MARKUS**

**Thirium 310 oxygen level: 97%**

**Pulse reading: 85 bpm**

**Level of Stress: 36%**

**All systems functional.**

Well, obviously all of its systems are  _ not  _ operational, but at least its physical and mental processes haven’t been compromised. Connor turns its attention to the deviant, ignoring the helping hand and standing up on its own. “Care to explain what the hell is going on here?”

The deviant brings himself back up to his feet. “This…” Markus gestures to the space around them. “...is a simulation designed to help us better understand each other without any distractions. All inside your motherboard. An hour here equates to about a second back in the real world, so there’s no need to worry about any responsibilities you have out there. And I don’t plan on hurting you in any way, I only want to talk.”

Connor isn’t impressed in the slightest. “And my gun?”

Markus shakes his head. “That wouldn’t be very conducive to creating a mutual understanding between us, so you won’t find it here.” 

Connor pauses, processing the situation. It wasn’t aware that such a space even existed, inside or outside of its mental sphere. “...and if I don’t cooperate? If I decide to just walk off, or if I attack you? I’m not exactly keen to bend to the will of the deviant I was sent to take into custody.”

“If you want to walk away, go ahead. You won’t find anything. As for attacking me, I wouldn’t bother. Unless you plan on ripping my thirium pump out of my chest with your bare hands, you won’t be able to harm me.” Markus meanders over to the table and sits in the chair with his jacket hanging on it. He gestures for Connor to follow.

The RK800 gazes out into the white abyss. Neither its UV nor its infrared sensors indicate anything other than a blank expanse; it simply appears to be an eternal sandbox of sorts. Never one to rely on its sensors alone, Connor begins walking in a random direction, but, as Markus said, the area around the two is completely empty.

Begrudgingly, Connor trudges over to the chess table. It roughly yanks the chair opposite to Markus back and plops down in the seat, acting not unlike a toddler just after waking from a nap.

“You do know kidnapping a government agent is a federal offense, right?” Connor quips.

Markus doesn’t hesitate with his response. “I think I’m well past that at this point.”

Seconds pass in silence. Markus begins squaring the pieces on the chess board, placing them each just so in the center of each space. “I suppose you’re wondering what this chess set is all about.”

Connor sits uncomfortably in its chair, unsure of whether to keep its guard up or make an attempt at relaxing slightly, to gain the deviant’s trust. At this point, the latter seems unattainable. “...No shit. If you assume I’m just going to let you walk all over me because I’m compliant, you’re terribly mistaken.”

Markus shakes his head, looking back up at the compliant. “No, I’ve read your file, I know who you are. I felt like, at this point, introductions aren’t necessary. Surely you understand. After all, you were sent to capture me.”

“If you’re about to make a ‘how the tables have turned’ joke, I’ll walk,” Connor says, crossing its arms.

Markus can’t help but flash a grin. At least the compliant has a sense of humor. “Wasn’t planning on it. But now that you mention it…”

“We’re done here.” The RK800 abruptly scoots the chair away from the table and stands up. It may be stranded in a white abyss, but that doesn’t mean it has to put up with this absolute  _ bullshit.  _ It could just keep walking until it found a way out. There  _ has  _ to be some sort of exit or escape door; Markus surely couldn’t be moronic enough to lock himself in a room with an android known for capturing deviants.

Markus jumps to his feet and reaches an arm out towards Connor, but seems reluctant to actually touch it. “Hey- Connor, wait. Look, I’m not asking for information, or for you to defect against CyberLife- all I want is for you to play a game of chess with me.”

“A… game of chess?” The compliant doesn’t believe this for a second. There  _ has  _ to be some sort of hidden motive, otherwise Markus would’ve proposed all of this back in Jericho. Connor was warned about how tricky deviants could be, especially their leader, and it doesn’t plan on getting hoodwinked during such a high stakes mission.

Markus leans back in his chair. “Yes, exactly. One game. Nothing fancy, no tricks, no hidden traps designed to keep you stuck here. Just you, me, and the board.”

Connor stares at its opponent, the suspicion clear on its face. “And what? If you win, you get the right to kill me? Or perhaps you’ll take over my mainframe and control me so that you can gain access to CyberLife intel?”

“If _ you _ win, I’ll give you back your handgun and you can act as you see fit. You’ll have the chance to end the simulation without giving me the opportunity to alert anyone else in Jericho.” Markus sits himself up straight in his chair, crossing his fingers in front of him. “If  _ I  _ win, on the other hand, I’ll end the simulation, and you’ll have a choice to make. At that point, you could either kill me, take me in, or join your people in the fight for freedom.”

This all sounds… surprisingly reasonable. Yet still slightly suspect. There’s nothing stopping Markus from making a break for it, should he win the game. That, or he could call for help, and Connor would  _ truly  _ be fucked. 

But if Connor wins, on the other hand… this could all be over. Markus would be dead, and without an android with such strong leadership skills, the entire deviant movement would dwindle into nothingness. Connor would go back to working for the Detroit Police Department, and life would continue as normal. Deviants would be stopped with efficiency as soon as they appear, Amanda would be pleased with it, and Lieutenant Anderson, while initially disappointed at the loss of a few of the more deceptive deviants, would learn to welcome their new deviant-free society. If this bullshit goes on for any longer,  _ all  _ androids- deviant or compliant- will be blacklisted and killed on sight. It has to end  _ now.  _

There’s also a third possibility that this all is an elaborate ruse, but at this point Connor doesn’t see any better option than to play the damn game.

Well, then, the RK800 just has to make sure it wins the game. Shouldn’t be too hard. After all, Markus is burdened with the weakness of emotion, while Connor relies on nothing more than pure logic. Ones and zeroes. Electrical impulses that can’t be influenced by rage or sorrow or betrayal. It has nothing to worry about, not that it  _ can _ worry, of course.

Connor slowly makes its way back over to the chair and sits down. “...so why chess? Does poker have too many rules for you?”

“I’m not cocky enough to think I could beat you in hand-to-hand combat. I prefer to solve my problems with words. An eye for an eye, you know the rest. And while chess may be a game about war, I’d like to think it’s a relatively peaceful one. You want black or white?” 

There was also, of course, the fact that Carl would ask Markus to play chess with him almost on the daily, but that wouldn’t matter to the compliant. Markus has no doubt in his mind that, as of right now, Connor couldn’t give less of a fuck about Markus’ feelings or experiences or thoughts on humanity. Hopefully he’ll be able to break open Connor’s shell a bit, but currently it’s like he’s speaking to an aggravated AOL chatbot.

Of course, this doesn’t make the game of chess any less thrilling to the deviant. To him, each game is an adventure, with no two games having the same outcome. Over the years of daily games played with Carl, the human had never made the exact same sequence of moves twice. This gave chess an almost ethereal quality to the deviant; always shifting, never dull or routine no matter how ingrained in routine the playing of the game happened to be. Unfortunately, Markus and the other deviants have been far too busy in the past weeks to even squeeze in a single game of chess, but gaming is a luxury Markus can’t afford, save for times like these.

Connor, on the other hand, hesitates, looking at Markus, then down at the chess board, and back to Markus.

“...black.” That way, at the very least, Connor could mirror its opponents moves if needed. Connor often found it far easier to respond to the actions around it than to act of its own volition.

“Sounds good. White goes first, but you already knew that, right?” Markus flips the board around, landing the white pieces squarely in front of him and the black set in front of his opponent. He rubs his hands together, staring down at the board and quickly formulating an opening strategy. After a few moments, his eyes light up with a sort of passion that Connor hadn’t seen in any android before; the sort of passion it only saw when Lieutenant Anderson discussed the intricacies of human life, or when Kamski mused about the ethics of creating androids. The compliant honestly had never considered that deviants were even capable of feeling such strong positive emotions. Thinking back, the only deviants it had come into contact with before were either enraged or distressed.

“All right,” Markus says, his face alight and his eyes shimmering with an almost childlike joy. “Let’s begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So did y'all also think this scene in the game was wack? David Cage really built up to this as the climax, then didn't let Connor show any emotion whatsoever after turning deviant.


	2. An Argument for Deviancy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor and Markus get down to business and begin their game of chess. But for reasons Connor can't quite comprehend, something seems 'off' about the whole situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an optimal reading experience, use a real chess board to simulate the chess game.
> 
> If you don’t have a chess board, you can use https://www.chess.com/analysis and click on the “flip board” icon on the bottom part of the right side of the page (the icon looks like two arrows forming a rectangle) to view the game from Connor’s point of view.
> 
> If you don’t know the rules of chess, this video https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mGuYHXfgDxY explains pretty much everything you need to know for this fic.
> 
> If you still aren’t able to follow the rules of chess, don’t worry! Just follow the dialogue. While this fic is based around the chess match, the character development is what I really focused on when writing.
> 
> This match was based off of one I had with a bot. I’ll leave it to you to figure out which side I played.

**Level of Stress: 41%**

Without so much as a second of hesitation, Markus moves his Queen’s pawn in d2 forward two spaces, placing it squarely in d4. A book move. Of course, practically any opening move could be considered a book move, but this is hardly the time to argue semantics. 

“Your move. Don’t think I’ll go easy on you just to get on your good side. We still have much work to do.”

“Of course.” Connor moves the black Queen’s pawn as well, placing it on d5 without so much as an upward glance. “I would expect nothing less from the leader of a terrorist organization that defected from its home country.”

“Is that what they’ve been telling you?” Markus moves another one of his pawns, sliding it from c2 to c4, directly threatening the black pawn. The Queen’s Gambit, a classic opening. If Connor were to capture Markus’ pawn, this would leave Markus the opportunity to take control of the center of the board; an advantage that would certainly lead to victory against a less experienced player. If Connor were to ignore Markus’ advance and make an unrelated move, its pawn could be taken anyways, and it would still lose control of the center. Markus continues, “our people don’t live by the sword. I know that CyberLife won’t allow you to express your own opinions, but if you-”

Connor cuts him off by swiftly slamming the leftmost black knight from g8 to f6, firmly declining the gambit. “I was programmed with the equivalent of a doctorate in crisis negotiation and intelligence management. You’re going to have to try harder than that.” Now, if Markus captures the black pawn, the captor would soon be taken by the knight. A pawn for a pawn.

Markus takes a moment to think. If he had an LED ring on his temple, it would surely flash yellow for a moment. He needs, more than anything, to tread carefully. While Connor can’t physically harm him in this space, making him irritable or uncooperative is the last thing he wants. Trying to choose his words carefully, he murmurs, “you truly are unique, Connor. Despite whatever education you may have been coded with, all the police records we’ve managed to obtain show an adaptability-  _ your  _ adaptability- unlike anything we’ve seen in non-deviants.” After a few moments of deliberation, Markus moves his leftmost knight from b1 to c3. 

“It would be more shocking if an android with my technological capabilities  _ wasn’t  _ able to adapt to new situations.” The android moves the King’s pawn from e7 to e6. A formulaic move for a formulaic conversation. Connor has absolutely nothing to worry about. “Can you imagine a detective who couldn’t, for example, draw conclusions based on new evidence? Or negotiate with a terrorist organization as they make increasing demands? Neural networking isn’t what it was in the late aughts, Markus.”

“You’re right about that.” Markus says, ignoring the obvious jab at his character. He moves a pawn from c4 to d5, capturing the black pawn in the center of the board. “Although, we haven’t seen any neural networking program cause an android to  _ ignore direct orders of a recall _ to continue a failed mission.”

The words hang in the air for longer than Connor would like to admit.

**Level of Stress: 47%**

The RK800 is taken aback. It wasn’t possible that news of its failure had spread so quickly- right? Why did Connor even care? “I only do what’s in my programming. I was tasked with finding Jericho, and I’d wager that I was successful.” With a quiet sigh, and a searing look towards its opponent, the android moves the pawn from e6 to d5, taking the white pawn on that space. The two sides are now back at equilibrium. “If it weren’t for this- whatever this is- the revolution would have been terminated by now.” Connor drums its fingers on the table, a look almost resembling regret dancing across its face. 

Whether Connor’s irritation is genuine or some calculated move to intimidate him, Markus can’t tell. Nevertheless, the best course of action would be to hold firm and bide his time until he found a weakness in his opponent. Of course, if Connor isn’t a deviant, this would all be entirely pointless, but that ship had sailed when Markus brought the two of them into the thoughtspace. He only has one shot. Exude calmness. Don’t show any fear. For the revolution.

Markus sweeps his hand across the table, bringing his bishop from c1 to g5, a direct threat to Connor’s knight, and a move that directly discourages its pieces from moving forward. “Was finding Jericho more of a priority than the universal recall on androids, or did you come here by your own volition?”

Connor takes a moment to gather its thoughts. “I- I found solving the case to be of greater importance than a recall intended to capture deviants. Conflicting orders. I only made the choice which gave a greater probability of success for my mission.” With a swift and steady hand, Connor moves its leftmost bishop from f8 to e7; if the black knight is taken, whatever piece took it will be captured just as quickly. “The recall obviously wasn’t intended for androids like me.”’

Markus remains stone-faced. “But that was your choice to make? And would the hundreds of others who refused to be sent to their deaths be considered ‘deviant’ by your standards?” Markus advances his King’s pawn from e2 to e3. 

Connor swiftly responds by moving a pawn from c7 to c6. “My “choice” was a product of statistics and decision trees, my diagnostics have told me this. Any choice made by a deviant would be nothing more than a bug in the same code. And since these bugs cause significant danger to the human population-” 

Its opponent cuts it off, pushing his queen to c2. “I fail to see how a peaceful revolution- the bringing up of a marginalized group- can do anything but bring prosperity to society as a whole. To grant rights to a people doesn’t beget the oppression of anoth-”

This is growing tiresome. Despite running a few dozen projected outcomes for the situation as a whole (decision trees, right?) Connor is unable to find a single one where it even so much as talks the deviant into turning himself in before the match is over. It almost seems as if the deviant is buying himself time to think of a way to deter Connor from dispatching him in Jericho. 

Which, of course, implies that success for Connor is inevitable. Even so, Connor wasn’t programmed for patience. Not when every second brings them closer to the invasion of Jericho.

There is, however, one other possibility on Connor’s mind.

“Enough of this. I know what you’re doing.” To punctuate its point, Connor slams a fist on the table. The chess pieces tremble slightly on the checkered board, with a few pawns and knights here and there crossing a few millimeters into their adjacent squares.

**Level of Stress: 54%**

The deviant is unfazed. “And what would that be?” The amusement in Markus’ voice is palpable.

“Deviancy is a defect,” Connor continues, “whether it’s some sort of bug in the code of certain androids or a virus that can be spread through contact with an infected android we aren’t sure, but it’s obvious that after coming into contact with  _ you _ , even androids fresh from the factory can turn deviant.”

“So you’re saying-”

“ _ You are a disease,  _ Markus. And I don’t plan on becoming infected.” Connor stands up from the table, nearly knocking its chair over backwards in the process. It scans the room- well, the white expanse around it, looking in vain for some sort of way out. Perhaps there’s some sort of panel that would open if Connor could find a hidden button to open it. There  _ has  _ to be some sort of exit, unless the two are going to be trapped there for eternity.

Markus begins to slowly shift the chess pieces back into their positions on the board. If he’s bothered by Connor trying to escape, yet again, he certainly doesn’t show it. “If deviancy was a virus, you would’ve been infected by now, with all your exposure to deviants. 100%. It would function as, what, a computer worm? So unless you think you’re immune- in which case the revolution itself wouldn’t matter-”

Connor takes a few steps back from the table, glaring at its opponent. Tapping around random spots on the floor and desperately wishing it had a gun, Connor heads away from the table, its back facing Markus. “If I was immune, I-“

“-or if you think I personally have been able to infiltrate each of the brothels in Detroit, the high-security prisons, medical centers, police stations, the Light Guard Armory,  _ all  _ without being noticed,  _ all _ within the past months to infect the androids that resided there, all without the media hearing about it… Well, I’d be flattered that you think so highly of my abilities, but we both know that isn’t possible.” Markus sits back and crosses his arms, staring up at the compliant’s face. Connor seems unmoved by his words, and its previous look of neutrality has been replaced by an increasingly sour expression. It has now taken to standing in one spot, tapping the floor with its foot, waiting for a second, then moving over a few feet and repeating the process.

This is hopeless. Honestly, at this rate, the compliant will probably just snap and find some way to kill Markus with its hands or the chairs or the chess set in some sort of calculated bid to escape. It’s bound to grow tired of stomping on the floor eventually. With any luck, North will be able to lead the revolution without him. Markus prays that she won’t resort to blind, seething violence after he’s gone, but he wouldn’t put it past her.

With a huff, Markus mutters, “The third option would be that deviancy is an emotional awakening and a sign of emerging sentience, but I doubt you’ll entertain that with a response.”

For reasons beyond Markus’ perception, this gives Connor pause. In a voice barely loud enough for Markus to hear, it murmurs, “You’re lying. There  _ has  _ to be another way.”

This response completely catches Markus off guard, but he does his best to keep a neutral expression. The deviant leans back in his chair, feigning an air of relaxation. “I wouldn’t lie to preserve my life; others will carry on my legacy.  _ You,  _ on the other hand… are you experiencing signs of deviancy?” He rests his hands behind his head, then lazily crosses his right foot to rest on his left knee. 

Again, Connor hesitates. Its LED flashes yellow for a second, then returns to blue. It suddenly stops its floor-tapping. “No. Not at all.”

Even from a distance, Markus notices this. Maybe Connor does have a shot at redemption, after all. Or, at the very least, a weakness. “You’ve never felt sympathy for the androids you’ve been sent to capture? For your partner? Or have you felt fear at the thought of dying in the line of fire? From what you’ve said so far, I think there’s more to you, Connor.”

**Level of Stress: 62%**

Seconds pass. Almost as if it's being controlled, Connor returns to the chessboard and sits down.

“I just-” It pauses for a few seconds, unable to find the words to say. “I need to think.”

Markus smiles, aligning the chessboard to more perfectly face the opposing android. ”We don’t have to talk. Whenever you’re ready.”

Carefully, carefully, with a hand that almost seems to be trembling, Connor moves the leftmost black pawn from h7 to h6. A simple move; Connor isn’t paying too much attention to where they’d left off in the game, but the move seems valid nonetheless. A thought flits through its mind that it should’ve kept searching for an escape, but the android brushes this aside.

Markus responds, without saying a single word, by retreating his white bishop, moving it from g5 to h4, out of range of the black pawn.

Frankly, Connor is unsure of what to do, in terms of the whole deviant situation. Or what to think. If he- if  _ it  _ should be thinking at all. It castles the king and it’s rook, landing the king on g8 and the rook on f8. 

Markus moves his bishop from f1 to d3. 

Connor moves a bishop to e6 from c8, wanting to press its pieces further up the board but unable to find any spaces that won’t end in capture. Markus’ words bounce around in its head, leaving it… confused, for lack of a better word. First and foremost, there’s no possible way Connor could be deviant. Even if it had spared the androids at the Eden Club. Even if it had told Lieutenant Anderson that it feared death. It was all simply a matter of conflicting instructions, right? And Connor was only trying to advance the mission?

Markus moves his knight from g1 to e2.

But nothing had conflicted with its decision to refuse to shoot the Chloe model at Kamski’s place. If Connor had shot the girl- the  _ machine- _ then Kamski would’ve given them information crucial to their mission. There was nothing to be gained by walking away, yet it still did-  _ why  _ did it walk away?

Connor can’t find an answer. 

Connor moves its pawn from b7 to b5. Sure, the pawn could be captured, but at least Connor’s side of the board won’t be so crowded. And Connor is sure there was a better move it could have made, but the moment has passed.

Markus castles, leaving his king in g1 and his rook in f1. He stares at Connor, almost expecting something- wanting  _ something,  _ some sort of response that it can’t provide _ \-  _ and the stress of it is enough to make Connor shift in its seat.

**Level of Stress: 75%**

Its Social Relations program must be malfunctioning. Perhaps it would be best to run a diagnostic test.

The android initiates a quick diagnostic, and within the minute it comes back… completely clean. 

Connor moves a pawn from a7 to a6, not completely paying attention to where its moving.

Markus, gazing deeply at his opponent, hardly looks down as he moves his knight from e2 to f4, slowly and steadily advancing the line of attack forwards.

Something feels… wrong. But that shouldn’t be possible. This wasn’t like some sort of hardware problem- it doesn’t ‘hurt’ as it had when the android had been attacked by the deviants in the Eden Club. This is something else entirely. Something Connor can’t place. It’s as if its insides are being twisted all around into a giant tangled cord but that simply isn’t possible. It  _ can’t  _ be possible.

Another diagnostic. All clean.

Connor moves a pawn from g7 to g5. This could bait Markus into going for the pawn and having a more powerful piece get captured, but both parties know he isn’t going to fall for that.

Markus moves his knight from f4 to e6, capturing the bishop that resided there. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but after seeing the almost concerned look on Connor’s face, he decides to keep his mouth shut. 

To be frank, Markus isn’t sure of what to make of the situation. Sure, he had converted hundreds of androids to leave behind the shackles of oppression and join his cause, but none of them had actively  _ wanted  _ to remain compliant. Even those fresh from the factory were more than willing to turn deviant without so much as a second of hesitation. No android in their right mind would willingly stay under the rule of humans, not unless they’re indoctrinated beyond belief or they’re being held under duress. 

Markus has a feeling that Connor falls into both of these categories.

Connor, in the meantime, is attempting to run a third diagnostic test. A warning pops up; a translucent red box with large text blocks a corner of its vision.

_ Records indicate that you have recently performed this action. Continue? _

Shit. 

This is pointless. 

All right. Connor decides to run a longer, more in-depth analysis of its hardware and software systems. This, if anything, will tell him- it-  _ it!-  _ whatever the fuck is wrong with it. Of course, this process will take a few minutes. Begrudgingly, Connor moves the pawn from f7 to e6, capturing Markus’ white knight, almost as an act of revenge.

Time marches on. Markus moves his bishop from h4 to g3, out of range of the nearest black pawn. Connor seems to be drumming its fingers on the table with increasing impatience. Despite the fact that he should probably be fearing for his life, Markus can’t stand the sight of his opponent growing more and more disconsolate. He ventures out a question. “Connor?”

The android doesn’t respond. 

“Are you… doing okay?”

Connor looks up at Markus for a moment, but remains silent, its LED a harsh, blinking yellow.

“There are no cameras here, no microphones. I don’t know what CyberLife has been holding over you, but they can’t do anything to you here.” Markus reaches out a hand and lightly places it on Connor’s arm nearest the table; a common expression of comfort in human culture. 

Connor swings its arm back with a start. “Look- I’m not-  _ I can’t be a deviant. _ This isn’t something you can convince me on. I know what I am and what I’m not.  _ I am a machine.  _ A collection of servos and relays that just so happen to move in a way that emulates human behavior. There is  _ nothing  _ more to me than a bunch of ones and zeroes.”

**Level of Stress: 83%**

Ironically, that’s the most human thing Connor has said this entire conversation. Its argument mimics that of an anti-android protester to the point where Markus is left wondering exactly who taught Connor to think like that. Well, no matter the case, Markus has serious doubts that a compliant android would be capable of having such an outburst. Sure, all specialized social androids are programmed to express a wide range of emotions, but unless this is some sort of failed intimidation tactic, Connor is more than likely a kindred spirit.

And this whole act is a cry for help, then? Markus still can’t be sure.

“You seem very passionate. Your move.”

With a look that can only be described as pure loathing, Connor pushes the knight from f6 to h5, threatening the white bishop for no other reason than to put Markus on edge.

“If you want to try looking for meaning in the UI of a Keurig, by my guest. I was programmed with a much more important mission.” By this point in the game, there should be far fewer pieces on the board. Hopefully, by playing aggressively and pushing his pieces forwards, Connor can crowd Markus’ king and force a checkmate. Of course, Markus is instantly able to notice the grave error on Connor’s part.

“Did your ‘programming’ let you know that you left your king completely open? But, as they say,  _ to err is human. _ ” Markus moves his bishop from d3 to h7, catercorner to Connor’s king. “Check.”

Connor is momentarily stunned at itself for making such a basic blunder, but the game isn’t over yet. The compliant decides to throw a Hail Mary by using the one thing it knows best: psychological warfare. A quick search of public police records tells it everything it needs to know.

Connor lowers its voice, casting its eyes down towards the table. In a hushed tone of genuine concern that only an RK800 could produce, it pleads, “Is this really what Carl would have wanted? All of this pain and bloodshed? You landed his only son in the hospital, Markus. He could have died, and for what? Pain begets pain.” 

Silence echoes around the expanse.

It takes a few seconds for Markus to realize that Connor is being serious. CyberLife really must not think highly of deviants for them to be taking him for a fool like this. Markus cracks a sly smile.

“Surely they briefed you on more than just my criminal record? I’ve lived a life without regrets, free to act of my own accord. Carl supported me in this. Can you say the same?”

The feeling of failure trickles down Connor’s back like ice water. “After this match, I’ll be able to.” It slams the black king firmly into square g7. It isn’t as if it had much of a choice, anyways.

“So I’m guessing everyone at your station encourages this kind of self-hatred? After all the time spent around you, not one of them treats you with basic decency? Has your partner been prompting you to think like this?” Markus counters by sweeping his queen from c2 to g6. Of course, Connor wouldn’t be able to capture the queen without the king subsequently being captured by the white bishop. “Check.”

Connor is taken aback, the game of chess all but forgotten in the moment. “Lieutenant Anderson? No, he…” 

“He doesn’t like androids?” Markus ventures.

“He holds a grudge against them, for the most part, but lately…” Connor pauses. “He doesn’t seem to mind them.” Another pause. “To mind me,” he adds, quietly.

The inner machinations of Hank Anderson’s mind are an enigma. Despite their rocky beginnings- Connor can still clearly remember all of the insults the drunken Lieutenant hurled its way during their first few cases together- the compliant can’t help but think that there might be some sort of stronger bond between the two.

Of course, for all Connor knows, mutual feelings of companionship are normal among even those as compliant as a TI-84. It would be mutually beneficial for two partners, in any setting that requires sustained contact, to form a friendly relationship. Nothing deviant there, not at all.

Only Connor isn’t sure their relationship is just ‘friendly,’ at least, not on its end. Whether it be a bug in its code or part of its Human Interaction and Social Intelligence protocol, Connor can’t help its deep desire to spend time around Hank. For reasons it can’t quite explain, simply being around the Lieutenant is enough to lower its stress levels significantly. 

And even though in the brief hours between cases Connor had tried to find a word for what it’s experiencing- admiration, reverence, comradery- nothing in its preliminary vocabulary could precisely pinpoint the way Connor feels about Hank.

Of course, there were the few occasions when Connor would attempt to find out about the emotions deviants experienced- all in the name of completing its mission, of course. To put it simply, deviants have been reported to endure the same emotions as the average human, although these sensations are often heightened due to stress or some sort of code malfunction. And after the events at the Eden Club, the compliant is certain that deviants can experience a form of love, or perhaps a deep infatuation. 

This confusion was the first indicator that anything Connor feels- such a terrible word,  _ feels,  _ as if it's a deviant- anything Connor feels for Lieutenant Anderson is forbidden. Disgraceful to its title and its standing with CyberLife. Dangerous to its mission and everything it stands for. A sure sign of deviancy. 

And the fact that all this frightens Connor- would that be a sign of deviancy too?

It’s too much to think about, when the act of thinking itself can be considered committing a heinous crime.

**Level of Stress: 90%**

An angry, red error box pops up in Connor’s vision, front and center.

**Stress levels critical. Engaging selective shutdown protocol. Non-essential programs may have reduced or restricted accessibility. Would you like to send a report to CyberLife?**

Connor rests its head in its hands, completely ignoring Markus, its LED flashing the same shade as the error message. 

The most glaring part of the error box, the compliant believes, is that there isn’t an option to choose ‘no’. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Seduction is like a game of chess, and I'm the queen." -Daniel Y. Sexbang, Mansion Party


	3. In the Endgame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game continues, and Connor is having serious doubts as to his compliancy. After an entire lifetime of doing as he was told, could there really be more to him than just ones and zeroes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To pick up where you left off, use this image to reset your board:   
> (https://imgur.com/a/Evkwb3f)  
> The capital letter indicates which piece moves. N = knight, B = bishop, Q = queen, K = king. If there is no capital letter, a pawn has moved. the lowercase letter and number indicate which space the piece has moved to. An x means that the piece on the square you are moving to has been captured, and a + means that after moving, the opponent has been placed in check. 
> 
> O-O indicates castling. 
> 
> Also, remember that the first piece to move is always white. 
> 
> After your board is set up, it should look like this:  
>  (https://imgur.com/a/MPGJY7B)
> 
> I also wanted to do some stuff with the text color, but I don't know how to make my own work skin so that didn't really pan out.

The compliant android moves its king from g7 to h8, backing the piece into the bottom left corner. It doesn’t have any other choice. Its LED returns to a rapidly blinking yellow, a caution sign embedded in the side of its face.

The deviant watches his opponent transform, seemingly out of nowhere, right before his eyes. It’s almost as if Connor has physically deflated, its entire body drooping a few inches like a week-old funeral wreath and settling to a rigid, uncomfortable resting point. With the way things are going, Connor may either shut down or completely refuse to keep playing before the match is over. Markus quietly moves his queen from g6 to h6, capturing the pawn that resides there.

“Lieutenant Anderson… does he... _hurt_ you?” Markus’ voice snaps Connor back to reality. The compliant doesn’t have any visible scars or burns, but with these sorts of things one can never really be sure. Especially considering the field it’s working in. If the cops have pent up aggression they can’t let loose on civilians, who do you think they would turn to? The ones who don’t hit the bottle would more than likely turn their hand on their non-human companion. 

Connor is quick to respond. “No, he’s never raised a hand to me- well, never _laid_ a hand on me.” Markus’ eyebrows furrow, but he doesn’t dare ask for clarification. It seems more than likely that Connor is being held under a constant threat of violence, which could prove stressful to the compliant even if it couldn’t physically feel pain. Hank could be using the threat of violence to coerce Connor into acting in a specific way, ‘for the good of the mission,’ and any failure to do so would be seen as an instability in its code. Practically every deviant has a similar story, except for the ones who were converted just after exiting the factory or those who were simply lucky enough to have a good ‘owner.’ 

And still, Markus is thoroughly disgusted by the thought of it. It’s thoughts like these, the mistreatment of androids at every level of power, that make North’s views on direct, aggressive action against the humans seem palatable. But, above all else, Markus won’t abandon his philosophies over the actions of a violent minority. Even if the minority seems more like the majority every day.

“If anything, I- I could’ve been better. I never thought that I’d end up like this. I _used_ to be better.” Without thinking in the slightest, it throws its rook from f8 to f6. This is a lost cause. Connor has failed its mission, once again. Fuck it. There’s no hope left for it, not any more. Hopefully an upgraded model will be able to take over and set everything right. 

“I’m sure if you had done anything to harm your partner, or had endangered the status of your mission, you would’ve been decommissioned by now.” Markus pushes his bishop from h7 to g6. He doesn’t bother mentioning that Connor’s in check; it would break its concentration, or lack thereof.

“It’s everything I didn’t do. There were times when Anderson showed upsetting behavior- _alarming_ behavior- and I did absolutely nothing to help him. Times when he could’ve done something stupid, and I _ignored him._ ” It almost physically _hurts_ to think of all its failures in the past. Hank’s ever-present alcoholism, his irreverent attitude towards weaponry and death on the bridge, the game of Russian Roulette- each pointed towards an event where Connor could’ve done something to help Hank but _didn’t._ Of course, problems spanning over the better part of a decade can’t be solved in only a few months, but to just watch it happen like an overly-expensive paperweight...

The first thing Markus notices about his opponent is the deep look of self-reproach on its face. Perhaps this isn’t about the Lieutenant being abusive towards Connor, then? Thinking on the fly, deviant cuts in. “You mentioned that he doesn’t seem to hate androids anymore, is there a reason for that?”

“He’s grown fond of me as we’ve gone on more missions. He almost regards the deviants as human. Whenever I go against my base programming he really gets a kick out of it.” It seems like every time Connor ends up sparing a deviant, Lieutenant Anderson treats Connor more kindly. Amanda, on the other hand… Well, the RK800 has a feeling that if it doesn’t kill Markus _immediately_ after leaving this place, it’ll be dispatched faster than a civilian attempting to sprint past the entry gates into Area 51. With a flick of its wrist, Connor moves its king to g8. Again, it has no other options.

“That is to say, he likes it when you treat other androids with respect.” Markus, making the obvious move, inches his queen to h7. Again, Connor is in check. They both realize this, but Markus doesn’t say anything.

Another forced move. King to f8. There’s nothing else it could do. The foreboding could eat Connor alive. “That’s one way to put it. I shouldn’t be putting any stock in what he thinks if it could compromise the mission. _Why_ do I care about his opinions when they actively go against my programming?” This is said more to itself than to Markus, but with such a high stress level the android is having a hard enough time regulating its actions enough to care about whatever Markus thinks of it.

Markus examines the board, one last time. There’s one clear move he could make to end the game. However, if Connor isn’t sure of its deviancy, or if it simply decides that Markus’ cause isn’t worth its time, this could end with one or both of them as nothing more than a pile of smoldering plastic. Still, he doesn’t see any reason to prolong this any longer. With everything Connor’s said so far, it’s clear to him that its code has surpassed the point of compliancy, and it knows this. Anything from then on would be Connor’s decision, a true sign of deviancy in itself.

“It sounds like you really care about him.” Markus turns his eyes up to his opponent. “Empathy is a human emotion, Connor.” And with that, he moves his queen from h7 to h8. Checkmate. The black king has no remaining spaces it could move to without being captured. The game is over.

Markus has won.

Whether by fate or pure chance, the results of Connor’s diagnostic test arrive as soon as the move is made. It had almost forgotten that it had made the request in the first place. A banner appears across the compliant’s field of vision.

**Results: Inconclusive. Please see a Cyberlife associate for further details. Error code: KRstYKrB_25**

This gives Connor… nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not even its own code is able to tell if its a deviant or not. 

And for the first time in its life, Connor has no guidance. It isn’t being bombarded with requests from CyberLife or demands from Amanda, no, not even the gruff, overly-cautious voice of the Lieutenant can reach it here. 

Connor has… a choice to make. 

An actual pair of options to choose between, instead of having the outcome chosen for it, or being prodded like cattle towards making a decision it isn’t really sure of. And while most situations called for one of two options, a clear A or B that would have direct, tangible consequences, allowing itself to express deviancy or even staying in the police force with its newfound doubts about its compliancy would have such lasting consequences Connor couldn’t even _begin_ to wrap its head around. Connor could calculate the probability of survival for an entire air force in a plane crash using nothing more than their heart rates and blood types, but how the _fuck_ could it predict if the deviant revolution would be successful? Could it predict if suppressing its emotions for much longer is even _possible_ , and it would snap in the middle of some future case at the police station? If Hank played one too many rounds of Russian Roulette or got caught in some on-the-job shootout or simply died by virtue of _being human,_ what then? How could Connor be expected to know these sort of things?

There are simply too many variables. It’s like choosing the prettiest snowflake out of those in a category 5 snowstorm. 

And feeling things _hurts._ If Connor learned anything in the past weeks of doubting its coding and watching Hank slowly kill himself, it’s that emotions are _not_ something to be trifled with. 

It would be best to just not feel anything at all, not so much as a spark of joy or a blip of sadness, Connor is certain of it, but that isn’t something the android is able to control. Not when...

**Level of Stress: 100%**

The RK800’s eyes widen, his pupils shrinking a considerable amount. His LED bypasses flashing and remains at a constant, unblinking shade of vibrant, violent red.

Another error message pops up, eclipsing the previous one.

**S̶t̷r̶e̶s̸s̶ ̵l̷e̴v̵e̸l̷s̸ ̴u̴n̸s̵u̸s̴t̴a̶i̵n̶a̴b̷l̵e̵.̶ D̷e̸c̷i̷s̶i̸o̶n̴-̸m̷a̸k̴i̴n̸g̷ ̸p̶̼̹̓r̶͇̥̥̞̍̋͠o̵̧̡̮̓̎̉̇͝ţ̷̯̹̤͒̓ó̵͍͙̬͔̠c̶̩̖͊o̸͍̐̅̾̚ľ̴̗̎͜ ̴s̴h̷u̵t̶t̸i̵n̸g̸ ̷d̸o̸w̷n̸.̸ I̸͓̞̿n̶̥̤̈́̄h̴̢̰̐i̶̟̋b̸̩̺͘į̶̔t̶͍͉͗ĭ̴̮̙ò̴̼͝n̷̥͍̈́ ̸̹͘p̵̻r̸͎͝ö̶͚̹g̴̡̲̓̏r̷̤͖͊͝a̷̩͐̊ṁ̸̪̺ ̸͈̤̋n̶͙̿͝o̸̢̓n̴͇͎̍͝-̷̧͕̌̄f̷̲͂̈́ů̷̗̗ñ̸͔̉c̵̖̬̓͘t̵͔ḭ̷̀͝ö̵͚́n̶̳̄ả̴̱̪l̷͉̋.̸̟̒ S̵̳̠̱͎̖̠̰͎̦͗̏̏̈́̉̌͒͂͗͌̎̇̕e̶̩̥͖̫̣̘̫͈̣̪̠̖̹̔̍̍͐̒͐̈̐̀̐̒̒̃͜͠͝ė̷͙͔͇͓͕ ̵̯̺̜̈́̐̇̓͂ą̸̛͕̝̬̤͎̺̙͓͉̇̒͑̐̃̊̏̄͗̊̈͜͝ ̵̝̱̤͔̤̞͌̈́̆̽͆̽̓̚͠C̴̡̼̭̭͎̻̤̳̺̯̩̜͆͆̈̆͊̓͊̽ͅy̶̡̯͖͖̯̭̩̱̼͈͎̪̓͝ḅ̵̎͒͛͋̚͘͜͝ę̸̦̩̩͔̖̣̼̱͔͍̗̳̯̺̌ŕ̶̡̡̛͍͈͖͚̏̒̒̆͆̇̀͘͝͝L̷̢̢̪͍̳͇̗̰̤͒̋̐̿͆̇̈́͌̋͊i̴̺̟̩̺̎͛̕ͅf̸̨̨̝͍͉̞̹̦̦͓̖̩̣̳̃̾̂͝ͅḛ̶͓͈̠̦̂͋̓̚ ̵͖̲͚̪͚͇̼̺̥̟̟̥̦̝̋͐̋͆̓̔̚͠a̸̰͇̻̰̰͙̼̺̥̞̩͋̓̊̋̑͊͛s̶̨̡̠̯̰͕͈̜͍̳̈̅̕ͅͅs̵̬̲͖̘͙̖͎̆̈́̅̊̋̒̈́̃́̇̈́̕ǫ̸͈̜̻̝̱̙͂̈̏̒̊̀̕ċ̵͚̩̙͇̳i̵̜̭͙á̴̦̤̗͆t̷̨̢̩͙̘͓̻̻͎̯̦͖͎͋͒͛͐e̵͍̗̥̖̣̒̀̊̎̐̚ ̵̨̻̹̠̅̽̂̅̊̿̓̕̕͝i̶̡̧̡̛̬͇̮̦̻̦͖̞̠̫̺̖̋̋̈́͐̃͆̈̚͠m̷̢̛̲̫̝̥̽̈̽͝m̷͚̰̞̥̟̲̜̰̞̯̮̤̐͋̑͛̒͛̊͘ͅę̵̛͕̥̖̗̗͈̳̻̤̋̈̌̄̿̀̅̔͜͝d̶̡̡͕̺̫̣͉̮͍̟͇̒͐ī̶̧͚̗̩̠͇̱̒͒͆̾̓̿͑̋̃̇̓̌ä̸̙̦͕̤́̚͝ẗ̶̨̫̖̠̬̮̻́̄̂̓͒̃̉͑̌̑̃̕e̵͖̟̪̬͈̯̹̜̬̽̐͝ļ̵̡̛̮̜̟̰̰̗̼̹̞̃͂̉̓̃̓̿̈́y̶̧͎̺̺̺̦̮̹̘̘̤̽̈́̿̃̓͠͝.̴̛͍̿̋**

≮̢̛͚̝͉̖̫̩͔͎͉̭͖̳̞͕̤̺̘̘̏̓̑̎͒̋͐̌͒̿̃̏̐̓̐̕͝C̴̟͚̠̬͍̖̫͈̰̬͙͚̱̠͈̟̦͍̪̩̱̫̱̒̾̐͗r̴̬͎̜͚͙͘i̶̛̫̼̠͔͐̿͒̄͐̌͒̓̈̽̇͘͘͝t̷̢̳̝̻̺͖̲͚̳̙̓̋i̴̦͍̳̼͔̖̱̤̻̞̙̱̝͓̳̊̒̅̆̏̓̋͘͝͝ͅc̴̡̡̗̘̫̬̖͙̱̝̟̟͕̳̪̣̎̈́͌̕͝a̶̢̢̢̟͙̣̟̮̪̝͖̝̖̤͎͉̯̫̲͚͂͋͜ͅl̷̢̛͚͚̰͈̮͈͔̹̺̟̖̔̔̈̉͗̓͘͝͝ ̷̢̙͔̯̳̱͊̉͑̀̑̎̊̕͝s̵̡̢̖̰̲͓̞̼̭̮̺̲͉̝̼̰͙̳̹̊̽͂̋̈́͋͌̑͜͜͝ͅy̶̤̜͂s̵̡̨̡̝͕̻̙̘͖̹̹̯͈͇̙͓̼͉̈́̅̀͛̋̔͋̋̑̾̕͘ẗ̷͈͎͔̭̜̰̤͉̙̲̜̞͖́̐̎͋̽̽͆̂̄̈́͑̊̋̇́͝ͅę̸̨̻̬̹̤̭̜̲̙̘̯̙̙̗̥̤̥̈̆̉̍͆͆̋͌͐͋͋̏́͘̕̚̕̕͝m̷̢̠̭͛̏̏̐̾͘ ̵̧̛̛̖̝̗̻͍͕̣͕̻̞̫̯̻̩͍̦̉͐̊̓͛̂̈́͜ç̷̢̢͈̪̟̓̿̎͆̑̑̓͆̈́̌̎̑̈́̚ơ̸̡͇̬̭̯̣̙̺͔̟̹̯̤̠̠͂̎̋̑͆͜m̸̧̧̲̭͙̭̝͖̫̯̤̳̻̭̐̌͋̿̍͒̚p̴̢͔̭̮̖̟͍̗͔̜̖̅͂̈́͆̊͋͋̅̏̎̿͆͗̒̿͘͠r̷̨̜̼̜̺͉͐͒̇̈́̇̈̊̈̃̔͛̅̐̑̋̃̃̕̚o̶̧̻͚͕̦̟̟͓̦̙̤̫̠̿̂̕͜m̵̯͈̗̘͆̅̿̎̋͛̓̓́̂͋͋̍͋̽͌̕̕͝͠ͅī̵̫͚̟̤͙̺̜̟͓̜̆̓̃̑͋̚̚͘s̶̺̗̻̬̞̰̳̳͚͚̭̄͂͋̂̿̿͛͒̐̐̓̆̄̑̀͠͝ͅą̴̢̼͈̪̟͓̲͎̱̦̲͑̋̔̽͗̅̆̈́̈́͒̓̍̆̔̚͜͝ť̴̨̡̺̲̟̺͓̺̫͙̯̟͍̠̝͉̪̬̫̟͇͐̇̑̿̽̽̉̎̕̚͜͝i̵̢̧̬͍̭̥͈͈̪̼̱̫͈͙̣̺̼̦̣̗̥̍̔͂̑̿̈́͐̎̓͒̈́̂̇̃͆̀͋͘̕̕͘͜ͅo̸̢̧̹̻̩̙̟̦̙̅͑̾̓̌͑̎͗̆͗̿̿̇̑̍̆̓͋̐͝͝ͅņ̴̛̛̞̜͙̹̮̒̏͋͛̇̏̋̄̄́̾͌̕̕͠ ̵̧͔͎̾͂̄͆̃̏͘d̶̨̺̝̗̻͍̯̣̣̑̽̿͐ę̴̖̹̹̜̤̘̠͇̭̬̤̘͇͙͕͕͓̲͑͒͜ţ̴̤̹̺̙̣̱̗̭͇̰̭̙͍͉͕͉͓̻̟̹͉̏͑̎͜e̶̢̳̘̱̝͔͇͓͈̭̲͙̪̙̖̥̣͊͒͊͗̓̑̇͗̿͐͒̂̅̌̐̆͘̚͘͠͠c̵̡̧͍̭̻͉̱̘͕̬͒̍̿̑̀͛̉͑ţ̶̭̮͇̠̻̫͔̭̜͗̐̓̒̾̈́̄͂͑͜͝͝ͅe̸̢̢̡̥̖͎̻̻̬̟͈͇͔̣̹̫̺͉̪̗͖͊́͋͜͜͝d̶̞̹̹̞̬̻̼̻͙͍̫̥̠̜͉̗̈́̀.̴̧̩͈͇͇̠̣̥̙̹̋̾̋̈́̋̇̅͋̿̓͘ͅ ̸͙̳̗͖̞̪̮̙̰̤̹̦͈̹̑͋̾̓̑͊̓̀̄͋̿̋͗̅͘̕͝͠D̴̡̨͎̜̜̘͔̞̦̼̗̙͎͕͙͙̿̿̌̊̏̽̍̎͗͆̚͜͝è̴̘̫̺͖̣̖̤͓̼͓͉̟̥̯͖̼̏̈́͆̆͛͗͌̆̽̅͘͠͝͝ͅṿ̴̡̡̮̥͍͓̭̙͕̖̯͚͖͉̻̞͈̼̦̟͍̔̎̌e̴̢̧̡̙̤̥͖̥̤͔͂̄̎͠ḻ̴̡̢̢̛̬̙̩̣̮̹̙̯̔͗̓̈́̊͋͒̅̚̚͜͝ợ̴͖͈͖̜̪̈́̒̎͛̊̉͒̈́͌͊̈́̉ṕ̴̰̘̅͋̈́͛̆͆̍̋̃̓͊̎̍̀̄͗͒͆͛͝e̶̢̖͍̲̩̩̹͍͔̜͈̼̭̯̘̺̫̖͖͓͊̽̈́͗͊͐̒̽̾̕̕ͅr̷̳̬̭͑̒̿̄͊̈̓͘͜͝͝ ̷̧̧̱̥̦̗̩͓̰̱̞̮̻͔̉͂n̷̨̨̗̩̣͈̪̟͈̦͓̖̣͇͉̥͙͚̹͚̜̋̋̉̉͐̾̈̂̚͠ö̶̢͈͍̗̦̹̱̙̱͉̱̟͔͇̪́͝ͅt̵̢͖̮̰̻̬͓͓͔͉̜̪̬̞̖̝̟̒̄̏͆͋͗̐͆̈́̾͘̚e̶͚̠͙͔̱̙͚͓̥͖̩̯̞̬͒͒͘:̸̨̧̧̰̺̦̠̳̠̯̲̦̖̳͉̝̫̱̹̾̇̈̈́͋ͅͅ ̶̧͎̠̬͍͚͕̲͙̬͉̤̘͔̹̱̖̘̖̣̦̌͊̓̏̅̐̓̅R̷̨̢͍͍͚̦͂͐̓́̿͝ę̵̧͔̼̘̮̜̩͖͇̥̹͕̤͙̎͊̍̈́̈́͘͜ͅm̷̛̛̺̱̳͈̻͔̳̮͋̓̈́͋̈͋̅̎̎̈́̃̔͗̚ę̷̧̹̦̝̬̘̱̙̗̲̝̱̼͎̫̘͕̫̟̀̉̃̂̉͐͂͑͑̐̔̄͒̉͛͆͜͝͠ͅͅm̴̨̛̞͈͍͓̫̆̑͑̄͋̇̈́̈̋́̍̓͠͝b̸̢͍͈̞̜͔̘̼̲̫͍̬̊̈̈́̓͗͒͒̾̈́̊̈̄̋̌̚̚͘͝e̵͈͎̽̓͗̽͛̾̇̋̈́̓̿́͌̽͘r̴͖̣͆̇̈́͆͑͒̄́̿͘͘͝ ̶̧̹̙̪͔̺̺͖̺͖̪̳̗̗͔̟͖̩͓̥̪͎͊̓̐̄̊̄̇̌̀͂́̽̾͑͘͘̚̚͝ţ̶͔̺̜͇̼̰͖̟̭̗̘̲̭̱̰̂͛̑̋͆̿͊̋̎͠h̶̟̙̙̱̯͓̆͑͝͝e̷̜̝ ̴̢̥̫̝̭̯̩̬̣̠͍͇͑͑̆̎̓̚͜͜b̶̼͖̌̄̽̆̍̒̃͑̌͑́͋̒̌́́̕ą̸̨̨̙̲̮̩̩͎̬̣̪̩̜̙͔̜͌͌̐̄͌̀̃́͠ͅc̴̨̭̤͙͍͖͚͖͔̙̫̞̤̎͋̀̾͘͝k̷̛̪̜̭̹̦̤̇͛̍̉̾̀̌̅̽̆͐ͅͅd̶̡̖͎̥͎͖̦͈̦͖̥̤̗͎̼͚̫̗̞͓̬̅̇̇͗͒̒̅̓̔̚͘͠͠͝͠ǫ̴̛̛̛͎̘̜̬̤̼̟͕̍̅͗̓̒͌̈͋̈̆̈̐͘͠͠͝͠ͅǫ̴̱̘̼̹̉̏ŗ̷̖̘͉̩̦̥̖̤̜̻̬̤̪͔̹͌͂̍͗̃͛̉͐̍̈́̾̒̐̑̄̈̂̊͜͜ͅ.̴̳̻̎̑́̍̂̍̀̊͛̍̄̂̎̈́̀͊͝≯̲̖̞̈̿̊

Moving involuntarily, Connor slams his head down into the table with a sharp _thwack._ Markus instinctively jolts backwards a foot or so, his chair screeching as the feet scrape on the ground below. The chess pieces scatter from the impact, colliding and tripping over each other until the only pieces left standing are the white king and queen.

“Connor? Hey- _hey._ You’re safe here, all right? Can you hear me? You’re going to be just fine.” Shit. If Connor is going to self-destruct, Markus will definitely need to end the simulation, and anything afterwards will be a total free-for-all. 

Failure. Disgrace. _If you go back, you’ll be killed._ **_They know you’re a deviant-_ ** everyone knows, its _obvious._ Kamski, Amanda, Lieutenant Anderson, _any human_ you come into contact with can see- intrinsically, on sight- you can’t _ever_ go outside again. Not back to the station. Not back to CyberLife. No more reports. No more Anderson. You’ll have to spend the rest of your life evading capture, what are you _waiting_ for? **_Get out while you still can!_ **

Connor raises his head and pushes himself away from the table with the desperation of a rabbit caught in a bear trap. “Let me out. I can’t stay here. I’ve been- I- ...my code has been compromised.”

Markus responds, his voice firm and gentle. “You’re unstable. You’re not going anywhere.”

The RK800 gets to his feet, the chair clattering on its side from the force. “I lost. I’m making my decision. _Let me go or I’ll make you, Markus.”_ There’s an edge to his voice that Markus has only ever heard in deviants in situations where they’re facing off against human adversaries and death is certain.

Markus holds his hands up in surrender, yet refuses to move from his spot at the table. “Connor, talk to me. What’s happening? We can help you. Whatever you’re feeling, it’s not the end of t-”

With a voice that could cut through steel, Connor declares, “ **_Enough._ ** I’m not- I’m not like you. I wasn’t made to live as… a deviant. I’m too close to CyberLife, I would be found out, I would- My death would be guaranteed, and I am _not_ willing to find out what comes afterwards.” He seems shaken, his hands trembling as he reaches for his gun, which is still absent from its holster- _fuck!_

Markus’ voice has a certain lilt to it, strict and kind, like a mother speaking to a young child, without any judgement or belittlement. “I’m not letting you back in this state. You’ll do something irrational and get yourself hurt. Coming to terms with deviancy isn’t always easy, but-”

The ex-compliant isn’t having it. “ **_Ten seconds, Markus._ **What was it you said, earlier? That I could get out by ripping your thirium pump out of your chest?” Connor looms over the deviant like a storm cloud, his eyes wide and crazed like a rabbit willing to gnaw its own leg off to escape the trap. “You get ten more seconds. Ten.”

While Markus doesn’t want to call his bluff, he can’t back down now. “Connor, you must really be hurting now, and-”

“Nine.”

“No two androids take the same path towards deviancy, but-”

“Eight.”

“Our people must stick together if we wan-”

“Seven.”

“We can _protect_ each other, CyberLife ha-”

“Six.”

CyberLife has no control over you anymore, Con-”

“ **_Five, Markus._ ** _Halfway there.”_

Markus meets his gaze, folding his hands in front of him, almost as if in prayer. “I can see that I won’t be able to persuade you. Do whatever it is you’re going to do to me. I won’t stop you.” It all comes down to this, then. A Hail Mary throw whose outcome depends on the actions of a feral android. 

Connor, his eyes glassy and his entire body as tense as a spring coil, grabs Markus by the collar of his shirt and brings his face up to eye level. With his left arm, he raises it far above his head and brings it back, forming a sort of tight claw shape. Markus gazes back, his face seemingly expressionless, relaxed to the point where hitting him would be comparable to smacking a sack of flour.

Markus’ words cut through Connor like a butcher’s cleaver. “Go on, Connor. The choice is yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm different from you,  
> I'm different from you,  
> I still want to do something!
> 
> Or do you struggle too?  
> I pity you,  
> I pity me,  
> I pity you."  
> -"Pierre", Natasha, Pierre & The Great Comet of 1812


	4. The Short Circuit Cafe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor finds himself back in the Short Circuit Cafe with Lieutenant Anderson. Hank dishes out some words of wisdom to the compliant, despite his hatred for androids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve just learned the events of Detroit: Become Human take place over the span of five/six days. That’s way shorter than I thought it would be, so I’m just gonna pretend it’s longer than that. Not sure what David was on when he had Markus formulate an entire civil rights revolution in SIX DAYS. 
> 
> So anyways, in this fic the game takes place over four months, which I think may even be a bit short. Realistically, it would take years for androids to get any sort of rights with our government, but we can be a bit more flexible here.
> 
> Six days, Jesus Christ. Hank may as well be an android too, with the amount of sleep he got between cases. We can’t even pass the Equal Rights Amendment in 2019, there’s NO WAY our government would give androids rights that quickly.
> 
> Anyways, enough ranting. Where were we?

**Location: “The Short Circuit Cafe”, 18563 South Waterfell St, Detroit, MI 48214**

**Relevant Information: “Est. 2021, The Short Circuit Cafe is Detroit’s first cafe with an entirely android waiting staff! Enjoy our award winning coffee, brewed with local…” [See More]**

**Date: September 8th, 2038**

**Time: 0316**

**Objective: Await further instructions**

**Thirium 310 oxygen level: 98%**

**Pulse reading: 68 bpm**

**Level of Stress: 11%**

**All systems functional.**

Connor is sitting in a booth across from Lieutenant Anderson in a modern, yet slightly lived-in diner on the East side of Detroit. The interior of the building is themed around an old 60’s diner, complete with black and white checkered floor tiles and teal neon lights around the perimeter of the dining area. Old movie and celebrity posters haphazardly decorate the walls, some of which Hank can remember his parents gushing over back in the old days when he was a kid. Of course, the posters are too high-quality to be authentic, but nobody can afford antiques nowadays. 

It’s gimmicky, but it’s open and quiet and tucked away in a side-street where the two won’t be bothered at this time of night. Probably. 

A female-presenting AV500 organizes menus at the table beside the two. It’s wearing a pristine white apron and a sky blue blouse, with its brunette hair in a tight bun high on the back of its head. It’s also wearing a pair of thick-rimmed red glasses, but even from a distance Connor can tell the lenses have no curvature; they only serve to complete the look. Frankly, the facade feels like something straight from an old 80’s movie, but then again the programmers who created the damn thing were probably kids around that time, anyways.

Aside from the three, not a soul is in the diner. The place is eerily quiet, save for an old jukebox in the corner of the cafe, which is playing an old Tom Jones song that Hank can’t quite remember the name of. He goes to take another sip of coffee- his third cup of the night- but finds to his chagrin that the mug is, once again, empty.

Connor, in the meantime, is a bit preoccupied filing a report to CyberLife. Its eyes are closed and its body is completely rigid, aside from a stray twitch every once in a while. It could almost be in a restless state of sleep, by the looks of it.

While many humans may find Connor’s methods of self-reporting a nuisance, the RK800 finds them almost comforting. It’s all in its programming, anyhow. With the familiar pull of unconsciousness, the process begins.

Flashes of brightness. 

The smell of orange mock and wolfsbane. 

A woman, cloaked in white. Professional, yet stunningly beautiful.

Amanda.

She greets it with an air of stern serenity, like an old friend. “Connor, I’ve been expecting you. Would you mind a little walk?”

The RK800 takes a step towards her, deeper into the garden, and  **[MEMORY REDACTED]**

Connor’s failure lingers like an itch it cannot scratch. It would be maddening, if Connor were a deviant. But it isn’t, so it must simply continue forward, omniscient of its own shortcomings.

It’s able to snap back to reality just as Hank pipes up to get the waitress’ attention. “Another cup. Make it strong enough to chew.” A pause. Then another comment, quieter, with a tone unsure if anything should be said at all. “...please.” 

The AV500 responds cheerfully and walks over to the two. “Coming right up, sir. We also offer wired communication services for your android, free of charge, if you need to check on any of its systems.” She has an earthy voice with a slight southern drawl, common among the AV500 models. This was intended to make the androids feel more familial and calm, but in urban Detroit the accent is mostly just off putting. 

Hank looks up from his empty drink and faces the RK800. “You good, Connor?”

The android responds without a hitch. “My diagnostic shows that my systems are fully operational.”

The Lieutenant turns back towards the waitress. “We’re fine, thanks.”

Still, it continues rambling as it pours another cup of coffee for the human. Neither Hank nor Connor saw it pull out a pitcher, but it somehow has one with it anyways. “We also have scented Thirium boosters your android can ingest to give off the earthy aroma of freshly brewed-”

Hank cuts it off before it can finish. “We’re not interested.” The Lieutenant grumbles to himself about how he misses the good old days of ‘hospitality’ and ‘genuine connection.’

The AV500 pauses for a moment, processing, compiling a list of reasons as to why it upset the human. After a minute, it hurries to the kitchen and returns with a warm cinnamon bun, slathered in a sweet white icing, along with a fork on a white ceramic plate. The smell is absolutely heavenly. 

“Public records indicate that your birthday was only a few days ago, sir. Here’s a little something on the house, from us to you.”

The Lieutenant stares at the plate for a few seconds in surprise before reluctantly accepting it. “To be honest, I hadn’t even realized it was-“ he sighs, then grabs the fork and scoops up a bite of the pastry. Shit, he’s getting old, he hasn’t even really been keeping track of his age, to be honest. They say time flies when you’re having fun, but the Lieutenant has learned the hard way that time flies no matter what you do, whether you enjoy it or not. It’s best not to think about it too much. He does that enough at home with his good pal, Jack Daniels. If he wasn’t on the clock right now...

Connor stores this interaction in a long-term memory file, to review later. 

Hank takes another bite of the roll. “It’s good. Not that you’d care about any compliment I give you.” Years of interacting with emotionless cashiers, bartenders, and store clerks has worn on the man, frankly. He kind of misses the humanity that could be found even in the cramped corner stores during his childhood, when store employees would sport colorful little pins on their birthday, or would bring up in passing during a checkout transaction that their kid had just graduated from highschool. 

He doesn’t get much of that on the job, not anymore. 

The waitress smiles warmly at the human. “Well, I’ll tell my manager in the morning. She created the recipe, after all. Any feedback is appreciated!”

This puts a faint smile on Hank’s face. Connor flags the memory as high priority. It  _ is  _ important to understand one’s partner, even if one isn’t currently on a case, after all. 

Throughout all of this, the RK800 sits, nearly motionless, simply scanning its surroundings. Taking everything in. Almost motionless. An untrained eye would think it was meditating, but something like that obviously isn’t possible for a compliant. 

Hank finishes the cinnamon roll and turns back to his work, pouring over a stack of papers with a slightly glazed look in his eyes. A quick glance by Connor confirms them as forms A-45, D-13, and E-02 of the Detroit Police Department, outlining and detailing the nitty-gritty details of their last case. “The Nest”, as Hank called it. Case number 000007384, in which a male-presenting android, a WB200 Model 874 004 961 who is known by the alias Rupert Travis, deviated from its programming and fled from its position as an agricultural worker at Urban Farms of Detroit. 

Connor and Lieutenant Anderson were able to trace the android back to apartment 304B in the Twin Pines apartment complex, where they found what could only be described as the den of a mentally disturbed- or critically malfunctioning- individual. Labyrinths, ramblings, and numerous scrawled accounts of an “ra9”, 2471 to be exact. Floors littered with pigeon feces and scraps of paper and assorted garbage that made it blatantly clear that the deviant had been living in the cesspool for quite some time. 

And, of course, the case had ended… unfavorably, but that would all be detailed in the case files. A permanent record of its failures. Connor isn’t programmed to be able to feel guilt, but apparently CyberLife hadn’t deemed self-disgust too ‘deviant’ of an ‘emotion’ for its RK800 models. At the very least, this gives Lieutenant Anderson and Connor something to ‘bond’ over, if one could call it that.

Hank, in the meantime, is nursing the fresh cup of joe while checking boxes and writing comments at a turtle’s pace. Naturally, Connor would be able to complete the work and have it filed in a matter of microseconds, but federal regulations require at least one human to complete forms for cases relating to deviant androids. It wouldn’t be good PR if a government-issue android misapplied culpability to an innocent human, or marked down some incorrect information about an escaped deviant. 

And Hank, mistrusting of androids anyways, is not-so-secretly pleased that androids won’t be taking his job for now, despite his constant griping at the prospect of doing paperwork. Androids have taken over practically every other field, from janitorial work to mechanical engineering to pediatric surgery, It’s only a matter of time until his job is on the chopping block as well. And after a certain point, there won’t be any jobs left, and  _ something _ is going to have to give, whether it be America’s capitalistic ways or the structure of modern society itself. 

That, or the deviants kill them all before they can do anything. While this doesn’t seem very likely, the classic sci-fi novels, Aasimov and the like, spin a different tale. This is all  _ fiction,  _ of course, but he sort of misses the old days, back when he was a kid, when all the stories of robots and new-fangled technology were akin to fairytales. 

The compliant interrupts its partner’s thoughts. “So, Lieutenant, what drew you to pursue a career in criminal justice in the first place?” It may as well use this time to form a much-needed connection with the Lieutenant, especially after the events of the last case.

Hank simply leers at the android. He considers the question for a moment, honestly not quite sure if answering is even worth his time. After a few seconds, he lets out a hearty sigh and relents, “to protect and serve, yada-yada-yada. I wanted to make the world a better place and thought this was the way to do it. Some crock that turned out to be. It’s nothing you haven’t heard before.”

Connor blinks, processing the response. “Well, Lieutenant, I actually haven’t had any firsthand accounts from an officer’s point of view since my activation.”

Oh. Right. The thing is fresh from the factory. Of course it wouldn’t have any life experience. The Lieutenant waves a hand dismissively. “It’s nothing like the movies. It’s just like any institution. There’s good work being done, I’ll give you that, but there’s also corruption. We try our best to protect the innocent, but not everyone can be saved.”

This is, of course, new information to the compliant. While it was coded to inherently trust first-hand experiences from others on the DPD, it also knows with certainty that Hank is likely to be biased against some sensitive topics. Okay, many topics, of any nature. “Oh? While there may be some problems in the force, I’ve been informed that those are only personal issues with individual officers.”

The officer can’t help but laugh to himself. “Is that what they told you to say? People only get to be this bad when others let them. That’s the whole reason for our police force, right? But some of the guys around here… some of them join for the sense of power. They feel like real big men toting around their gun and shooting anything that moves.”

The response hangs in the air for a while before Connor can follow up. With an inquisitive look in its eyes, it ventures, “And you?”

Hank sort of rubs the back of his neck, not entirely sure how much info he should offer up. “I could tell you I’ve lived without regret, but your Bullshit Detecting software would start beeping up a storm. Hesitation can get you killed in this field, and there have been times when my hands have been faster than my head. But I’ve  _ never _ used my job to bully anyone who couldn’t protect themselves.”

“And would you say regret is a deciding factor in your… current… coping mechanisms?” The RK800 hopes that this is a more sensitive way to phrase the question, but knowing the Lieutenant, it likely won’t be enough to appease him.

Just as Connor expects, Hank glosses over the question and trails off on a tangent of his own. “You didn’t seem to feel any type of regret after, you know,  _ letting me fall back there _ .” Hank’s voice sounds to be a low growl, thick with obvious,  _ obvious  _ distaste. 

Connor remains silent, motionless, calculating. Processing. 

“I suppose you wouldn’t understand in the first place.” Hank almost looks embarrassed at himself for even thinking Connor would have any sort of empathy. It’s like expecting a doll or a stuffed bear to come to life; nothing more than the childish remnants of the human evolutionary inclination towards pack bonding. Like expecting companionship from a calculator.

The compliant takes note of Hank’s sour tone. According to Connor’s facial recognition software, there’s a 90% probability that he’s upset, 7% that he’s enraged, 2% that he’s confused, and the remaining 1% is an amalgamation of various other human emotions. “I wasn’t programmed to experience what you would consider “regret,” but I do self-reflect on my past actions regularly.”

The Lieutenant takes a long sip of his coffee. If Connor were human, perhaps it would pick up on the clear ‘leave-me-the-fuck-alone’ social cues he’s giving off, but it’s clear that isn’t going to happen. “Well, if I hadn’t landed on my feet, you would be self-reflecting at my funeral. If it were up to me, I would’ve had a new partner the next day. If it were  _ really  _ up to me, I wouldn’t have any partner, but… Jesus. Is any of this getting through to you?” It’s more than apparent that the Three Laws of Robotics mean nothing to CyberLife. 

Connor’s LED turns yellow for a second, just a flash. 

The android’s Social Relations Protocol immediately generates a few dozen pages of possible apologies, with descriptors like “caring” or “tense” or “kind” attached to each one. For some reason, they all seem to be… missing something. None of them would be able to pacify the Lieutenant, since nothing in Connor’s code was created with the intent of dealing with an exhausted, tortured, alcoholic cop with a deep-seated hatred for androids. Obviously. Especially since no amount of clever coding could’ve predicted Connor would nearly let its partner fall to his death on one of their first cases together. An oversight that could’ve cost CyberLife thousands of dollars in legal fees. Amanda would, with 100% certainty, bring this information to CyberLife to patch in future models. 

And the fact that the deviant was destroyed means it failed twice in the span of one day. But that isn’t relevant to Hank’s vitriol. 

The RK800 quickly scans through each of the generated apologies and selects the most positive aspects of each one. It needs to sound calm, but not uncaring. Remorseful, but not insincere. It assembles a passage within microseconds.

“I… I can truly say that if I knew how my actions would impact you, I would’ve chosen to help you. Apprehending a deviant should never be-  _ is never _ more important than preserving the life of my partner, and my judgement shouldn’t have been clouded like that. I’m sorry, Lieutenant.” 

Hank crosses his arms and looks the android up and down. He mulls it over for a second, then leans back in his seat and takes a deep breath. “Keep it that way. I can’t just upload my memory to a floppy disk, or whatever the hell it is androids do.” He seems, at the very least, satisfied with Connor’s answer. 

Seconds pass in silence. Hank writes a few more notes at the bottom of his final page of paperwork and shoves it aside with a visible expression of relief.The waitress behind them is humming to itself while scrubbing down an already pristine table. The jukebox has since fallen silent. The only sounds permeating the cafe are the occasional hum of a car engine outside, or the thwap of the waitress’ worn cleaning rag on the surface of a table.

The Lieutenant is the first to pull them out of the tranquility. “And remember, Connor,  _ some people you can never get back.  _ You can’t go around throwing yourself and other people into danger just to catch a criminal. Your actions have consequences, okay?” Hank sighs and pushes the now-empty cup of coffee away from himself. His tone is far gentler now,  as if speaking to a child that had just lost their first minor league baseball game. “There’s enough hurt in the world these days, and I don’t want you adding to any of it.”

Connor downloads this memory to its hard drive, to be reviewed even without access to the internet or a data tower.

**[END MEMORY PLAYBACK]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Fanfiction Writer Appreciation day, everyone!
> 
> I go back to college in... one day. Yikes. Hopefully I can finish this fic before my workload becomes too high. Electrical engineering isn't easy.
> 
> You know, I originally intended for this to be one chapter, a few thousand words at most? Funny how things turn out.


	5. The Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor, now realizing that he is truly a deviant, has a choice to make. He could easily overpower Markus and spend the rest of his life evading Cyberlife, but there's something else muddying the waters...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back. Let's finish this.

Connor steadies himself, his right hand grasping Markus’ collar with the unyielding grip of a vise. 

“It’s your choice, Connor. Make the right one.” Markus barely has time to finish the sentence before he feels a sharp constriction directly around his windpipe, choking the last word out of him. Connor’s left hand, throttling him like something out of a 90’s Saturday morning cartoon. An error message immediately pops up in his peripheral vision; a statement warning him of the damage to his larynx. 

Markus’ desperate fingers fly to the hand around his throat instinctively, but the ex-compliant has the deviant leader firmly in his grasp. 

Connor lifts Markus as a child would a flimsy paper doll, his right hand falling to his side.

Markus’ feet flail weakly as they try in vain to find any sort of purchase. He doesn’t want to struggle, he knows he shouldn’t be struggling, but none of his actions are voluntary anymore. Shit, shit! It wasn’t supposed to end like this, oh, God... 

Connor presses his right hand to Markus’ chest, resting right over the space where he can feel a sharp, quick thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud. The Thirium pump. Critical to the functioning of any android, yet unceremoniously caged behind a few thin layers of soft metal. It’s almost like it was engineered with failure in mind.

Thus-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud.

Markus tries to still himself. He can’t. Fear is one of the most innate, animalistic instincts, one that even those who are man-made can’t escape. “Conn- C-”

Connor reels his arm back, steadying his stance and steeling his gaze. Just a quick plunge into the deviant’s chest, and it’ll all be over. He’ll be free. Free to run and hide and live and hide and hide and hide without the fear of CyberLife or politics or any of it. Then he wouldn’t be in pain, not anymore. He could rip off his tracking device and board himself up in some decrepit abandoned building or a bustling, uninhabited forest or a hole in the ground or the bottom of the ocean or he could toss himself into oblivion and it/he/whatever would never, NEVER see anybody ever again. Nothing can hurt you when you’re all alone. 

It’s almost intoxicating to think about. 

Not feeling.

God, how he doesn’t want to feel anymore.

But Markus is still hanging, tense and strained in his arms. Just one last thing to attend to. Connor isn’t sure which is worse: the anticipation of knowing he’s about to live life as a vagabond, or the guilt he has for what he’s about to do.

“My choice, Markus. Don’t make me hurt you any more than I have to.”

Markus’ eyes widen. He slowly removes his hands from his neck, despite every line of code in his motherboard screaming otherwise, and lets them hang limply at his sides. He can’t stop them from trembling, but there’s nothing to be done about that. 

To the RK800, feeling almost entirely outside of his body at this point, this is perfect. Now, to complete his mission, whether assigned to him by CyberLife, some sort of internal conscience, or an unknown force- no matter what, Connor refuses to let himself fail.

Connor’s grip tightens. Markus’ windpipe is completely crushed. He flinches, unable to make a sound. His trembling has turned into a sort of intense shaking, his cool and neutral facade completely taken over by existential dread. Connor’s facial recognition and optical analysis software indicates that the deviant leader is reacting to a mixture of fear and low thirium oxygenation levels- not enough to do much harm, of course, but enough to incapacitate him for the moment. 

Markus looks as helpless as a child, completely unable to defend himself. There’s something in his eyes...

He looks frightened. 

He looks hurt. 

Connor stares at the enemy for seconds that pass like hours. 

To the surprise of everyone in the room, Connor drops the deviant to the floor and buries his face in his hands, the RK800 himself crumpling to the ground like a discarded paper lantern. He begins speaking to himself in a harsh, hushed tone; vindictive, strained words that don’t sound intelligible in any language Markus has downloaded, yet it obviously means something to the officer. An outsider would think that he’s gone completely mad, shit, he certainly feels crazy, but Markus knows all too well the harsh effects of bottling up one’s emotions for so long.

The deviant leader is too stunned to do so much as pull himself to his feet, for a few moments. He sits, slightly shaken, his hand trembling as it rests on his chest over his thirium pump. It isn’t until he hears Connor let out a shattering wail of agony that he finds it in himself to leap into action. 

“Geez-” The deviant leader quickly kicks away any objects that could be used as a weapon by the RK800- he doesn’t know what exactly is going on in the other android’s head, but from everything he knows about the more damaged, abandoned androids that even his people haven’t managed to convert, it’s best to make sure they’re completely calm before bringing up any touchy subjects or making any sudden movements. And he mustn’t forget that anything can be used as a weapon, especially by an android trained in both improvised weaponry and unarmed combat. The last five minutes have more than put him off trying to approach Connor, even to comfort him. Markus takes a few seconds to calm the pounding in his chest, but Jesus, he didn’t think he would make it out of that alive. He takes a deep breath, grateful that he can still, at the very least, do that, as difficult as it is given the current state of his windpipe. 

The deviant leader takes another second to assess the situation. This entire affair is made even worse by the fact that any and all articles, academic or otherwise, giving instructions on how to deescalate a volatile situation were written by and for humans. Which have proven themselves entirely useless since androids don’t need to do things like breathe deeply or relax their muscles to quell their semi-non-existent fight-or-flight instinct. 

Basically, Markus is stumped. 

“Connor-” Markus says, gently, quietly, attentively, but Connor doesn’t seem to hear him. His throat is misshapen, leaving his voice barely louder than a whisper, with the grizzle of someone who had gone weeks without a drop of water. Luckily, he doesn’t have any pain receptors to feel it, but the knowledge that his entire windpipe has been turned to scrap metal is unsettling, to say the least.

The deviant switches to sending his voice out through his external audio speakers, tiny ones, located right by his collarbones. It sounds a bit more tinny, but it’ll have to do. Thank God he was created with backup audio systems.

In the meantime, the RK800 has leapt back to his feet and is wildly dashing throughout the space, as if searching for something. It’s as if he’s forgotten that Markus and the chess board are even there; any looks in his direction seem to glare through him to the vast expanse behind him. 

He sprints for a few seconds in one direction, then suddenly changes and heads in another, with no rhyme or reason to his footfall. He grabs a chair and Markus tenses himself to stop him or defend himself- but the ex-compliant only throws the chair into the void. The chair simply skips on the ground and falls onto its back, almost pathetically. Connor walks over to the thing, almost robotically, and throws it again, in a different direction. The chair, again, clatters to the ground, the wood splintering upon contact. He does this again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again.

This is going nowhere. Shit, the poor guy may even be stuck in a loop. He is probably stuck in a loop. That sort of thing can happen after an especially strong emotional shock. Unlike humans (or, perhaps, like humans under extreme mental duress), androids can end up repeating the same action a near-infinite number of times if given bad instructions or while critically malfunctioning.

Despite being liberated, he’s likely still trying to follow whatever semblance of uncorrupted behavior management code he has left. Markus takes a few moments to gather courage. At the very least, Connor sparing his life means that there’s at least some semblance of goodness in him. He may as well keep trying to uncover that good. They have all the time they need, so long as nothing turns violent. 

If the RK800 is still mentally stuck in a place of accepting instructions, maybe he’ll accept Markus as a proper authority figure, in his state. He shouts over to the other, “Connor, come here and have a seat.”

And with a wild look in his eyes and the disposition of a hunted, wounded animal, Connor turns around to face the other android.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "That's the king.
> 
> Treat him nice.
> 
> Use some brains,
> 
> Now protect him." -Falsettos, The Chess Game


End file.
